Ne'er Forgotten
by Ally612
Summary: My love for you prevails through death, Christine, and my song exists solely in your heart. Never forget the corpse who loved you, Christine, who still loves you today." Edited August 15, 2009.
1. Scene I: Enter Heroine

_Erik is dead._

_Erik is dead._

_Erik is dead._

She had read it three times, just to be sure. After all, it could have been a misprint. It could have been a simple mistake of the typist – yes, that must be it. Perhaps an Erin had died, the name's were very similar after all. Surely _Erik_ couldn't be dead, not so soon, not with such little fuss…surely her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Yes, her eyes must be unfocused from embroidery. She had embroidered all morning; her handkerchiefs had to reflect her new initials. C.C. She was no longer C.D. The name Daae was no longer, she was Christine de Chagny, Comtesse. She would just go to Lorraine, ah, no, Lorraine could not read. She had forgotten that in her haste. None of the servants could read, save Pierre, and he was much too occupied to be bothered with a misprint.

So, who else could read it to her? She had to make sure, after all. She knew it was not _Erik_ who was dead, no, no, surely not. But, that "n" looked suspiciously like a "k" to her. Well, she would just have to send a complaint in to the editors of L'Epoque! It would not do to be utilizing such an unclear font type, that would not do at all! It would look most impressive coming from the C_omtesse de Chagny_, of course, they would have to listen.

Raoul could read it off to her, just to make absolutely sure. She knew it was poor Erin who died, poor Erin who was perhaps a chimneysweep, someone not very important. Because everyone who was someone had a long obitutuary, friend and family alike had something to say about the deceased, they always did.

Her silken slippers made little noise on the cold marble of the halls. Her muslin frock whispered as it ever-so-lightly brushed the ground. One hand smoothed back a flaxen curl and rose to knock on the door of her husband's study.

Two raps, timid as they were, startled Raoul de Chagny from his work.

"You may enter," he called out, as she opened the door.

Looking up, a bright smile adorned his handsome features. His thin mustache, neatly trimmed just this morning, stretched with along with his lips. His fair eyes danced at the sight of his lovely wife.

"Why, it's my Little Lottie!" he exclaimed, "What brings you here this morning? And looking so beautiful too!" He made his way around the desk and properly embraced her, planting a safe kiss upon her brow.

Flushing at his attention, she held the paper to him, turned the exact page. That it was so macabre a page, he had not yet noticed.

He smiled gently at his little wife, "Dearest Christine, you are very kind to bring me the paper, but I have already received one this morning."

For a second, confusion curled about her features. "Oh, no, no, Raoul. That's not why I brought you the paper. My eyes must be tired, because I can barely make out the letters – I was embroidering all morning – would you mind terribly reading me this obitutuary?"

"How absolutely morbid of you! Reading the page of the deceased, Christine? Whatever for, my darling?" He laughed gaily, though an odd look crossed his eyes. His darling wife had seemed recovered from her ordeal with…him, but perhaps some wounds needed more time.

Noticing her consternation, he relented. He could never resist making her happy. Scanning the page, he found the caption she spoke of.

"It simply says 'Erik is dead', Christine why—"

He had been cut off. Christine had fainted away, landing hard on the ground.

"Christine!" He cried out with alarm. Hastily stooping to cradle her prone form, he emerged from the study, calling out for aid.

"Pierre, summon the doctor! Quickly, the Comtesse has fainted!"

---

A/N: I know the writing seems disjointed and fragmented, but I'm writing it the way that I believe each character would think. Honestly, who thinks in perfect grammar and form anyways?

Enjoy and review.

Oh and I own nothing that you recognize.


	2. Scene II: Exit Heroine

"_Holy angel, in Heaven blessed," she desperately cried, the remaining words seeming to far away to reach._

_Flaxen hair spilled over lily-white shoulders, arms outstretched to the blackness below, if only she could find the words, find it, find Him._

_She was falling._

_  
Falling._

_And falling further still. _

_A million golden specks rained down in front of her eyes, surrounding her with their hard light and warmth. A voice accompanied them. Thousands of sparks fade until but two were left. Gold as the sun, they glinted with freedom. Reaching, she held her arms out, begging. _

"_My spirit longs to rest with thee!" Triumphantly, she fell into the arms of darkness. _

"_Eternally so, you shall rest with me!" The voice was victorious. _

_Not an Angel? _

_No, she struggled in those arms, no, no, that's not right! _

_Not an Angel! _

_You are not my Angel of Music! _

"_Keep your promise," the voice whispered like a lover's caress. She relaxed. She would come to no harm. He had only ever loved her, after all. "Keep your promise," he whispered, twisting the ring upon her finger._

"_Christine!" The voice caressed, changing from cold to warm, from heavy to light._

Christine woke suddenly, gasping, an awful smell lingering under her nose. She coughed, nearly retching and then laid as still as the dead.

"Christine," her husband repeated, "Christine!"

As Raoul was gathering his wife into his arms, she trembled and then went still once more. Her eyes were blank, she did not cry. She did not listen to the doctor's reassuring words to her husband. She knew she was all right.

For some time, she simply didn't move, content to be nothing more than a little doll in Raoul's hands. He was crying, she realized suddenly. Her heart softened. He was a good man and she loved him dearly. As a good man who was dearly loved, he was a fortunate man. Her eyes wandered for minutes, until a flash of gold caught her eye. His ring, Erik's ring! _Keep my promise_, she told herself, _I have got to keep my promise._

"I am alright," she told Raoul, smoothing his hair, "Everything will be alright."

Gazing upon her husband's weeping form, she made her decision.

He could never know.

The matter could not wait long, she knew. Death was quick and the devastation afterwards was quicker and even more unpleasant. Bodies simply did not keep.

Wan and appearing weak, Raoul informed her that she would not leave her bed for at least two days. She had nodded submissively. He would leave her be, he had much work to do following the former Comte's drowning.

She stealthily dressed herself in her warmest, yet shabbiest clothes. The dress of a Comtesse would not do for such an outing. Drab black cotton adorned her pale frame. Her pale curls swept under a veil. Her dull eyes held no former spark. _No one would recognize me now, _she thought as she escaped her home.

The hansom, toothless and leering, had corrected his behavior on seeing her garb. She looked entirely too respectable, he was not interested in those sorts. Rapidly, she traveled to the place where everything had begun.

"The Opera Garnier," the hansom intoned, with a hand held out for his pay.

_I have arrived, Erik_, she thought morbidly, _and a true corpse will greet me today._

Like a shadow, silent and oft-unnoticed, she had come to the Rue Scribe entrance and removing the silver key, entered. She left no trace, not a footprint, not a one.

The passages were dank and unlit, yet through her terror, she managed to guide herself to the shores of Lake Averne.

Black waters lapped at the pebbles on the bank; eerie gurgles and ripples the only distinguishable sound. His gondola lingered on this side of the shore, tethered to a small stake in the ground.

_How,_ she wondered before shaking her head. It was best not to ponder the mystery that was her tutor. Climbing in the boat, carefully as possible, she reached for the oars.

Gliding across the surface, she listened intently.

Just over the middle of its expanse, a truly morbid greeting fell from her lips. "Hello, Philippe," she whispered, affected by her surroundings.

Over half an hour later, she arrived on the other side, relieved and physically exhausted. Her arms shaking, she barely managed to unlock the door. Closing it as quietly as she could manage, she leaned against it. Only a moment did she linger there, catching her breath, hoping to stall the events that lay in her future.

The absolute rule that silence held upon Erik's home was frightening to poor Christine. Humming a tune, she broke the noiseless air with the dulcet tones of an angel.

She could hum no longer, though, when she caught sight of a pale arm, extending just beyond a little well. A humble furnishing in his extravagant home, the well had always looked out of place. Rather like Erik had, and it seemed spectacularly fitting that he chose to die there.

"Erik?" She questioned the corpse, "Erik? It is me, it is your Christine, come back to you!"

She received no response, and tread closer.

"I have kept my promise, Erik! I still wear your ring!" She could hear the tremors in her own voice, "Erik…please."

When only silence met her cries, she closed her eyes and fell to her knees beside the body.

"No," she gasped, "I will not believe you are gone." Taking his stiff and cold hand, she pressed it between her own, "I came back, Erik…" She held the hand to her face, wet with tears. His hands, once causing revulsion in her, were only the hands of a man. Though the true aroma of death was palpable, she could not care any longer. "Erik, I came back to you! I kept my promises!"

Anger overtook her, and she opened her eyes, blurred with sorrow as they were. _How could he? How dare he do this? He told me he would always be with me, how could he do this to me? I came back! I kept my promise! I did everything he told me to, how could he?_ Fury ignited in her and she pounded her fists on his chest.

"You said you would never leave me!" She accused him, tears falling faster now, "You lied to me, Erik!" Repeating this over and over, her mantra continued, intermingling with the keening over her grief.

"You promised," she whispered feebly into his chest. "You promised…"

_Erik is dead_, her mind told her. Her heart cried as she acknowledged it. _Erik is dead. Erik is dead. _

It could have been hours, minutes, days; she could not distinguish time any longer. She had simply laid there, her head on his chest, where his heart no longer beat for her. Unresponsive, she stared at the cold walls of his home. _His prison_, she corrected herself, _and you, his possible salvation._

When drowsiness threatened to overcome her senses, she pulled back from her maestro's corpse, suddenly wearier than she had ever been. It was then she heard the crinkle of paper below her, that she noticed the letter in his cold, dead fist.


	3. Scene III: Enter Ghost

_Beloved Christine,_

_I exist no longer. With your departure, I felt the heart within me cease to posses a will to beat onwards. I held on to my life long enough to arrange my affairs. _

_As I write this, I feel merciful death approach me, closer and closer. I welcome this, Christine. Life without you is life without meaning, and a life I would wish to not live. _

_This world is a cruel one, Christine, but you are the light of it. I envy the boy, for he has you, thus will live the happiest life a man could lead. He will make you happy, Christine. My only wish in life and death is your happiness. Know that I give you my blessings to spend your days with the boy, and be content with the love you have in your life._

_Though death may take me from this world, nothing can erase the love I hold for you, darling Christine. With your kiss upon my forehead, you changed me. I gave you up for love, this same love that slowly kills me._

_Do not feel guilt on my behalf, Christine! Loving you has been the only happiness I have ever known and I regret nothing but the hurt I know I have caused you. _

_This house is yours, Christine. I leave everything to you. I only ask that you bury my opus with me and never open its pages. It was not meant to be read or performed. I finished it only moments after you escaped to the world above. Rest assured, Don Juan found his redemption, much as I have. My paintings are yours though I ask they never leave your hands or eyes. _

_I relinquish everything to you, Christine, including my heart. My life must belong to your God now, for I am truly dead if you read these words._

_My love for you prevails through death, Christine, and my song exists solely in your heart. Never forget the corpse who loved you, Christine, who still loves you today._

_Perhaps, we will meet again someday my Angel,_

_Your Erik _


	4. Scene IV: Exit Ghost

Erik had been laid to rest. The letter, his last letter, had crippled her emotionally. After reading it, she had flung it away, so as not to stain it with the flood of tears she shed.

"Erik," she moaned, "forgive me," she entreated his corpse.

_I have gone mad,_ she thought, _I seek comfort from the arms of a man who has passed._ She laid her head upon his chest once more, wrapping her arms around him. Embracing him one last time, she had kneeled next to him. With a sudden motion, his mask had been peeled away, was cradled in her lap.

His face held no horror for her now. The paper thin flesh, gray with death, was relaxed into a peaceful expression. His yellow eyes, unnatural as they were, lay closed, his spider-eyelashes locked upon his hollow cheekbones. The ruin of his nose did not seem so gruesome now, and his terrible mouth was closed in the lock of death. His limbs were stiff.

_Erik was dead._

Weeping, she removed the golden ring from her finger. Taking his hand, she slid the ring on, ever so slowly.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, "I will never forget you."

Leaning over his death's head, she placed one last kiss upon his forehead. For a moment outside of time's control, her lips lingered on his face, and she relished the contact. Christine's tears splashed down on his face, dripping steadily.

Tucking the letter into her dress, she replaced the mask upon his face. In his arms, she cradled _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"You will exist in memory only, Erik. I have nothing but your song," she told him sadly, stroking his masked face. "I pray you are content," she choked upon her words. "I will always remember you, your voice, my Angel!"

"Always," she promised. Then she left the room, not daring to glace back even once.


	5. Scene V: Enter Requiem

"Maman," a little boy called, "when may we go back to the carriage?" The small child shivered, wrapping his coat about him more tightly. "It is very cold, Maman!"

The woman smiled and beckoned her son forward, "Just one more moment, Philippe. We have one more person to visit."

The little boy, whose golden curls were capped, with his mother's eyes, took his mother's hand. Her other arm held a small sleeping bundle. A baby girl, less than a year old, cooed in her sleep. Philippe smiled up at his mother.

"Do you think it will snow soon, Maman? I want to build a snowman this year! But all by myself! Last year I was too little and Papa had to help me!" Philippe pushed his chest out importantly, "I am _seven_, this year!"

"It is only October, Philippe, we shall worry about snow later! But you are correct, it is rather cold outside. We do not want your sister to take ill. I shall make this visit quick."

The boy nodded complacently, "Yes, Maman. If Charlotte catches cold then Papa will be upset we stayed too long!"

The woman merely walked further, approaching an emptier space in the cemetery. A small tombstone lay ahead, and she walked further along to meet it. It was cold outside, and it wouldn't do at all if Charlotte or Philippe took ill Raoul would be awfully angry if she took sick, as he would remind her, she had another baby to think about, for she was with child once more.

In a small clearing, the woman stopped, releasing her son's hand, and holding her daughter gently, she beckoned her son forward.

"Philippe, dear, would you place the lilies on the ground near the headstone?"

Wordlessly, he did so and stepped back near his mother.

She ran her eyes over the inscription once more. It was an empty grave, but making the trip to Erik's abode was not always plausible. She could visit Perros when she wished. The grave was a comfort, somewhere else she could make sure he was never forgotten. _I'm keeping my promise, Erik._

_Erik_

_An Angel among men,_

_He lived for love alone._

_Ne'er forgotten, his story will live on._

"Maman," Philippe questioned, breaking the silence, "who was Erik?"

She smiled at her son, looking at him patiently. "He was many things, Philippe. I first knew him as my Angel of Music…"

Christine de Chagny led her son back to the carriage, cradling her daughter lovingly.

As Philippe settled into the cabin, and she placed Charlotte's bassinet beside him, she looked back once more. _They will know your story and you will live on, my Angel. The Angel of Music shall never be forgotten among us. _

"Home," she instructed, placing a hand upon her growing stomach, just where she could feel tiny flutters of movement. Smiling, she began her tale. "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing…"

_La fin._


	6. Scene VI: Exit Requiem

_My dearest Raoul,_

_I am gone now. I suppose I am with my Papa, with the very angels of heaven. _

_That will be strange to read, I know, for it was strange to write. I am sorry that I could not stay longer. I am so sorry that you will be alone when I am gone._

_Though you, of course, have the children._

_Ah, the children. Truly, they were the greatest blessings in my life. Philippe, our firstborn, a grown man now. Lisette will make himvery happy. She has already given us our first granddaughter, a gift more beautiful than any given before! Little Sofie will be a great beauty, just like her mother. Please make sure she knows I loved her very much, Raoul. _

_Oh, how our only daughter, Charlotte, takes after yo!. She is a gentle soul with your heart, so predisposed to love. Watch over her, she feels too deeply sometimes. She will always be her Father's daughter, I am sure. Our very own Little Lottie, how I doted on her…_

_And our youngest, the twins. We knew they were going to be trouble from the start. It almost killed me to bring them into the world, but they were worth every moment of pain. Alexandre and Leopold will keep you young long after I am gone, I do not doubt there will be laughter and merriment wherever they choose to settle. Make sure Alex is good to little Genevieve, I know he is planning to propose soon. And don't let Leo marry the first pretty girl he decides to court, he needs someone to mind him, to reign in his sillier impulses. _

_My life with you has been paradise, my husband. You loved me and I loved you more than I could have ever imagined loving a person. I have not spent an unhappy moment with you, not one moment that I regret. You have all of my gratitude for making me so happy. Our children have a wonderful father and will have amazing lives because of you._

_With all the love I hold for you and our children in my heart, I hate to have to tell you goodbye. Yet, I am sure, you will see me again._

_Your loving wife,_

_Christine_

Sighing, she folded up her last words to her husband. The paper, soft, folded easily into a small envelope. _Raoul_, she wrote on the cover, a simple address. He would recognize the letter's worth soon enough. They would be her last words to him, aside from the sweet goodnight he had wished her not even an hour ago.

Placing the envelope on her nightstand, she walked away, her steps quick and steady, despite her illness.

Slipping beneath her sheets, she held up the mirror and let her hair loose. Curls, spiraled and wild as they were decades ago, fell to her shoulders. A merry snow color, they framed her delicate face just-so. Her blue eyes sparkled still, though they were glassy with sickness. Coughs erupted from her frame every so often, but she only stared.

One little hand touched her papery cheek gently, "I have grown old," she told her reflection.

Smiling at her looking glass, "I was beautiful, once."

_You are beautiful still._

She did not look up. The shadows had followed her for a while now. As time went on, they became more distinct, until they were in the shape of a man, a man she knew rather well..

"I am dying," she said rather thoughtfully.

_Yes. But it will not be so bad._

"No," she agreed, "but my children…my husband."

_You shall be in a better place, away from illness and suffering._

"So I shall," she acknowledged. "Philippe came today. He brought Sofie. Charlotte came yesterday. The boys came then too." A tear trailed down her face, lost in the lines of her face. "They said their goodbyes."

_Would you rather them not?_

"I would rather not have to leave them behind."

_You will see them again, everyone meets again someday._

"How do you know this?" She asked with desperation and a hacking cough.

At once, she felt a hand rubbing at her back, though no one was there.

_You forget, my dearest, I have been dead for years and years._

"Yes," she rasped back, "it was many years ago."

_Not so long ago, I have watched you, darling Christine. I saw your children. I saw the boy. I saw you grow._

"I kept my promise," she told him as she let her head rest on the pillow, "My grandchildren will know our story…I mean, Lotte's story."

_It is just as much our story now as it was hers. We will be known for generations, my dearest. You kept your promise very well._

"I never did read your Opera, Erik." She pouted a bit, and looked at the shadows just by her bedside.

_Take my hand, Christine. I will show you._

"I am not quite ready yet," she sighed as her eyes closed gently.

_I have time._

"Yes," she breathed, "I would imagine so."

There was silence and comforting darkness. The only sounds for a while were her irregular coughs and small gasps for air. She kept herself quiet. It would not do to wake the others. Let them have one more night of peace.

The faint chords of a violin struck up, very softly. A familiar tune, her worn voice longed to ring out and sing to it. Time had taken her voice, time had taken Erik, and time would take her too. _Perhaps it was for the best_, she comforted herself.

_It is time, my dearest. You are ready._

Her hand gripped his. And in tandem, their voices joined once more.

_My spirit rests._

_La fin._


End file.
